


persimmon nights (but only with you)

by tetsuyas



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Eventual Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Strangers to Lovers, Summer, Winter, minsungbingo, when will author stop spouting poetry about jisung?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:07:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24107224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tetsuyas/pseuds/tetsuyas
Summary: “Jisung tastes faintly of persimmon, Minho thinks as he kisses Jisung; he wonders if Jisung, too, had eaten the fruit obsessively for the past decade to try and remember the taste of the summer solstice, the way the stars had blanketed the two from the rest of the Upper Courts, the feeling of grass underneath their fingertips and warmth on their faces.”Or; Minho is the only god of the winter in the Upper Courts and Jisung is a minor deity of summer evenings. They fall in love once, over persimmons, and once more again, half a century later.
Relationships: Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Comments: 19
Kudos: 133
Collections: MINSUNG BINGO: Round One





	persimmon nights (but only with you)

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This is my second entry for [@minsungbingo](https://twitter.com/minsungbingo)! I'm sorry it's taken so long -- I lacked motivation at first, but I have always been a sucker for day/night symbolism, so here I am.
> 
> 2\. This fic fills out the boxes for: **Seasonal Motifs (spring/summer/fall/winter)** and **Food/Cooking.**
> 
> Enjoy! <3

The Upper Courts are a spiderweb dripping with decadence and thinly veiled hatred— an obnoxious competition between petty gods and goddesses vying for attention and prayers, draped in silk fabrics and weighed down by necklaces forged with gold and deceit. 

Minho hates it: the sickeningly sweet false promises that drip sticky like amber, the empty eyes rotten from eons of lifetimes spent alive but not living, the illusion of devotion painted over the Courts for no other reason than to preserve the last semblances of sanctity. 

As the only god of the winter, he gets quite a lot of prayers and worship from the humans down below, normally for their families to last safely through freezing months or for their cattle to survive the biting ferocity of a blizzard. Through people’s faith, Minho’s able to sustain a comfortable life in the Upper Courts, wielding a fair amount of power in the politics of their world. 

But, he hates it, always brushing off Chan and his pleas to join one of their council meetings in favor of retreating to his estate. There, hidden behind the walls of his home, he could dance for hours, days, allowing himself to forget his burdens and worries. 

There, he can pretend that he isn’t a dead god, the embodiment of loss and _decay_ and the feeling of things forgotten in the snow. Dancing makes him feel alive. 

( _Do dead gods deserve to feel alive?_ ).

On one of the rare occasions where he actually leaves his house ( _No, he is not a hermit, shut_ up _Chan_ ), Minho finds himself meandering through the crowded markets on the summer solstice, looking for a vendor selling a very particular type of persimmons only available once every few decades. They’re obscenely overpriced, but Minho’s always been willing to make a few sacrifices for sweet things. 

The benefit of being the god of winter—and all of the nasty things that come with the season— is that most of the deities give him a wide berth as he looks at the different stalls and games set up for the solstice festival. Finally, he spots someone selling the delicious fruit, and he’s about to ask the vendor for a pack when—

“That’ll be 30,000 _unbyong_ , Han-ssi.”

“Ah, vendor-ssi, don’t you think you’re charging a little too much?” A young man whines before signing his name on the purchase form. “I’ll drop off the _unbyong_ in a few days, but only because you promised me that these persimmons are super special.” 

With a little wave and an airy laugh, the other god ( _Han-ssi_ , Minho remembers) takes the last basket of persimmons and leaves the stall. 

No way in Heavens am I going another forty years without these persimmons, Minho thinks bitterly, starting forward to chase the stranger through the crowds. The other man is surprisingly fast, slipping in between crowds of deities and behind shops and Minho is just about to give up when Han suddenly spins around and grabs Minho’s wrist. 

“Who are you, and why are you following me, asshole?” Han whispers angrily. They’ve managed to a quiet lake away from the throngs of people. Here, the music and mindless chatter is muted, softer and lighter underneath the croak of frogs and the whistle of grasses. 

Sighing, Minho pulls off his hood, watching bemusedly as anger slips from the other’s face in the place of shock, fear, and something else he can’t determine.

“Oh- Minho-sunbae—uh, sunbaenim, I’m sorry to have lashed—um, lashed out.” Frantically, he folds into a deep bow, refusing to meet Minho’s eyes when he rises. 

Briefly, Minho thinks the other is cute like this, all flustered and adorably nervous, eyes trained resolutely on the patch of dirt between them, fiddling with the sleeves of his spider silk hanbok. 

And, well, Minho has always been slightly weak to sweet little things like this. 

“It’s fine, really...” he replies, waving off the offense. He trails off his sentence, causing the other to realize he is asking for his name. 

“Han, Han Jisung, sunbaenim!” As if a little embarrassed by his stuttering, Jisung turns red again. “I’m a minor god of the summer! I work with Chan-hyung— I’m in charge of summer evenings and such. I’m pretty new to this deity thing, it’s only been a century or so, but Chan-hyung was nice to take me as an apprentice, and there’s still a lot I have to learn how to do, but—” Suddenly, as if all too aware of his word vomit, he snaps his mouth shut and smiles a little sheepishly at Minho. 

Minho thinks that after this he’ll annoy Chan for the next few decades for keeping such a cute deity a secret from him. 

“The persimmons,” he points at the package clutched tightly between Jisung’s hands. “I’ll buy them off you. Double the price, whatever you want.” 

“Oh, no worries, sunbaenim! I’ll share them with you, free of charge.” Jisung smiles broadly, his eyes turning into crescents hidden behind dark hair. He walks over to a log nearby and plops down, patting the mossy space next to him. 

Cautiously, Minho takes the seat besides the younger. _If he knows who I am, why isn’t he afraid of me?_ The thought prods at his chest, but it quickly dissipates when Jisung offers him a persimmon shyly, as if he wasn’t expecting Minho to actually take him up on his offer.

In between appreciative bites of the fruit, Minho asks mildly, “You said you’re a god of the summer?” Jisung furiously nods. “Happy solstice then, Jisung-ah.” 

It makes sense, Minho thinks, why Jisung looks like he’s glowing. He’s at the peak of his power, tonight, his skin the color of honey and gold, his eyes sparkling with magical energy. 

“Happy solstice to you too, sunbaenim!” Jisung turns to face Minho properly, and Minho is just slightly pained by how open and friendly the younger looks. 

“Call me hyung, Jisungie,” Minho teases with a wink, laughing lightly when Jisung stutters out something about nicknames and flirty winter gods, the tips of his ears turning red and quickly spreading down his neck and behind his hanbok. 

It’s nice, being able to forget for just a night. Teasing Jisung is just so _fun_ , even more so whenever the younger whines out an exasperated “ _Hyung!_ ” Minho thinks Jisung looks the best like this, head thrown back in unabashed laughter, golden skin tinged just slightly with a healthy flush. 

The two talk through the night, forgoing the log eventually in order to just lay down on the soft grass, staring at the night sky, with the stars unhindered by the smoke and lights of the humans down below. 

At one point, Minho sits up to take another bite of persimmon, smiling when he sees Jisung trying his best not to stare as he chases the sweet juice from the fruit across the planes of his fingers and wrist. 

When the night slowly fades and the crowds of deities begin to return home after the festival, the two finally stand up, brushing away blades of grass off their hanbok. Eagerly, Jisung asks, “When can I see you again, hyung?”

“Sorry Jisungie,” the older replies, regret heavy in his voice. “Now that the solstice is over, I need to start preparing for my duties for the rest of the year, so I probably won’t be able to see you until the spring.” 

At this, Jisung’s eyes dim a little, but before Minho can apologize again, he shoots him another grin. “No worries, hyung! We’ve got all the time in the world.” Jisung’s laugh sounds the slightest bit forced, and Minho, once again, curses the fact that he was born a winter god. 

Minho walks Jisung to Chan’s estate, where the younger is residing as he gets accustomed to his duties. The sun’s just barely peeking through the lazy branches of peach trees, and when Jisung turns to face him, light catches on his gently dangling earrings and necklace, casting a kaleidoscope of colors onto the ground.

Briefly, Jisung looks up at Minho, staring as if solving a particularly complicated problem, before reaching up to steal a kiss. It’s quick, with his lips just barely brushing Minho’s cheek, and when Jisung rocks back on his heels he’s smiling widely, all heart-shaped and soft. 

“Bye, hyung! It was nice to get to know you,” he chirps, before rushing inside. 

_Oh no_ , Minho thinks, reaching up to feel the residual warmth on his cheek. _He’s so cute._

( _Can dead gods feel alive?_ ) 

For all his love for persimmons and dancing and his fondness for a certain sweet minor deity of summer nights, it’s months like these when Minho is painfully reminded that no, dead gods cannot feel alive, not if they have anything worth living for. 

As the winter solstice draws closer, Minho shuts out the world to focus on his godly duties. Sending a layer of frost over shriveled browned grass, forcing birds and deer away from their homes, it all makes him feel disgusted with himself. Even as the sun’s journey each day across the horizon grows briefer and briefer still, he longs for the warmth of its rays. 

On the night of the first snowfall, he squints up at the moon, and takes a minor, if bitter, victory that the clouds obscure him from her pitiful gaze. 

Although he is loath to admit it, Minho misses Jisung. They had kept up a regular correspondence through letters for a while after the solstice, but even those faded into unwritten _i wish you were here_ ’s and _i am thinking of you again_ ’s. 

He tries to remind himself that all young and beautiful things leave in the end, in the harshness of winter, but that doesn’t stop him from thinking of the other’s heart-shaped smiles and kind eyes at night. 

The persimmons he eats obsessively should be in season by now, but always leave him with a bitter aftertaste. Minho tries not to think too much about it. 

Minho tries not to think about him.

Eventually, one winter apart turns into two, and then three, and soon it’s been nearly half a century since Minho has left the security of his estate. There’s a stack of unopened letters on his desk, delivered exactly once a year on the eve of the summer solstice, letters that Minho refuses to believe that he deserves to open. 

Better to let Jisung face the bluntness of the cold that winter deity Lee Minho is infamous for, than for him to fall in love with a dead god. 

( _Dead gods cannot dream. That is a fact. Dead gods cannot dream, but, late at night, Minho_ wants. _If he cannot have Jisung in this life, he hopes he could at least have him in the next. In another lifetime, far away from godly duties and immortality and the winter._ )

There’s only a few days left before the winter solstice one year, and Minho’s ensured it’s been a particularly brutal season thus far— it’s been fifty years since he’s seen Jisung, and the weather has been record levels of freezing cold as a twisted mockery of their anti-anniversary. 

He’s drumming his fingers idly against the worn redwood of his desk, writing a letter to Chan (so far, it goes like this: _Chan-hyung, if you ask me to attend another meeting for the Council of the Upper Courts, I will not hesitate to—_ ) when his door swings open.

There’s a figure, swaddled adorably in multicolored overcoats over his hanbok, at least one of which belongs to Chan, and Minho’s heart slowly, painfully, desperately begins to beat again.

“Do you know the lengths I had to go in order to get past your stupid guards, Minho-hyung?” Jisung seethes, stepping closer and closer to the older. “Years! Literally years before I had enough donations from humans to bribe them—”

“You bribed my guards?”

“Shut up! Don’t distract me, I’ve waited half a century to get this off my chest.” Jisung takes a deep breath, but is interrupted by a rattling cough that lasts for nearly a minute.

“Jisungie, you can’t be here, in my house. It’s too cold, and it’s nearly the winter solstice.” Minho reaches out on instinct to grasp the younger’s hands, but forces his hands to fall back to his sides. His own freezing body temperature would only make things worse. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Jisung wheezes out. “This happens every year, hyung.” 

_Fifty years_ , Minho realizes. _He hasn’t talked to Jisung in half a century. He doesn’t know if he’s even the same person._

( _He doesn’t know if Jisung would still be willing to love a dead god. Still, he wants._ )

Jisung seems worn, and looks as though he has lost some weight, frail underneath the weight of the overcoats and sleepless months, eyebags stamped deep underneath dark eyes that have lost their once-familiar light. 

He did this, Minho thinks, ashamed. He did this to Jisung. He takes a step back for every step Jisung takes forward, retreating until his back hits the edge of his desk. 

“Jisung-ah, look, hyung’s sorry—”

“Save your fucking apologies, hyung,” Jisung retorts, voice trembling. “I waited every summer for a chance to see you again, for a chance to eat persimmons with you underneath the stars again. I know you needed your time, but fifty years, hyung—” A choked sob cuts him off. “Fifty years without you felt like a lifetime.” 

“You shouldn’t have waited for someone like me, Jisung,” Minho runs his hands through his hair in frustration. “I’m not— I’m not worth it.”

Jisung tilts his chin up and levels Minho with a stare that could have brought entire empires to their knees. “Shouldn’t it be up for me to decide that?”

“Winter, summer, they aren’t meant to match,” Minho retaliates. “You, you’re so bright and you are so warm and genuine and innocent, and I’m—” 

“Don’t even think about finishing that sentence, Lee Minho.” Jisung tugs on the front of Minho’s hanbok until they’re eye level, and Minho is suddenly all too aware of how large Jisung’s eyes are, the sweep of his hair against his forehead, the slight curve of his nose. He doesn’t dare look down to the younger’s lips; he doesn’t deserve to, not after what he did to Jisung.

“I don’t care if we can only see each other once a year, hyung,” Jisung pleads. “I just know I want to spend this lifetime with you, and the next, and the one after that. Shouldn’t that be enough?”

His words feel like a burn, sparks alighting at the ends of his nerves and running through Minho’s veins like wildfire. Carefully, Minho takes Jisung’s hands from where they are tangled up in Minho’s hanbok and brings them to rest on his chest. 

“Jisungie,” Minho begins. He clears his throat. Expressing his emotions had never been his strong suit, but he would bear all of the awkwardness, the shyness, if it meant that he could say it to Jisung. “I was so, so stupid. I shouldn’t have just left you behind. I was selfish. I promise I’ll spend the rest of our time together atoning for my stupidity.”

A beat passes, then two, then—

“You better, hyung.” There’s that familiar playful lilt to Jisung’s voice again, and Minho knows that even if nothing is alright now, it will be one day. After all, he has an eternity to make it right.

And then Jisung’s smiling widely, sweet and bright, and Minho is awestruck by how incredibly precious the younger is. Jisung, who waited years for Minho, Jisung, with his persimmon-stained fingertips, Jisung, who had insisted that Minho was deserving of love and life— it would always be Jisung. 

With a crooked smile, Minho gently cups Jisung’s cheeks, resting his forehead against the younger’s.

“Can I kiss you, Jisungie?” he whispers. 

“I thought you’d never ask.” Jisung smiles, all slow and saccharine, and he tiptoes to bring their lips together.

Jisung tastes faintly of persimmon, Minho thinks as he kisses Jisung; he wonders if Jisung, too, had eaten the fruit obsessively for the past half century to try and remember the taste of the summer solstice, the way the stars had blanketed the two from the rest of the Upper Courts, the feeling of grass underneath their fingertips and warmth on their faces. 

Jisung tastes of persimmon and summer nights, and he gasps out a low “ _hyung—_ ” when Minho bites lightly at his collarbone, hot breath fanning out in curls against the cold air of the room. Minho feels electricity in his veins and in the warmth of Jisung’s hands tugging desperately at the older’s hair, and he cannot help but want to clutch insatiably at this feeling of being completely, utterly, alive. This time, however, he won’t let go.

( _And so, their story begins again. Death chases life, as winter chases summer. What we may forget at times, however, is that the summer inevitably follows the winter, and life too, chases death. For what is decay, if not an extant of life?_ ) 

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired to write this story after seeing a particular [tumblr post about mushrooms](https://mckitterick.tumblr.com/post/182542728215): someone had written that "decay exists as an extant form of life" and I fell in love with the sentence immediately. 
> 
> Now, you may wonder: ao3 user tetsuyas, are you saying you wrote an entire fic in a day just so could write the final sentence? The answer, obviously, is yes. Yes I did. 
> 
> Anyways, thanks for reading! I'm [@squirrelsvng](https://twitter.com/squrrielsvng) on twitter if you want to bother me about minsung (or anything, really).


End file.
